Chapter Text
It had to be plot armor that kept them three from getting caught literally stealing a multi-million dollar piece of highly classified equipment (or the US government was incompetent, which, sure).
Bucky didn’t think too hard about it. It was unrealistic that he randomly showed up, it was unrealistic that young Sam flirted with him nonstop, it was unrealistic that that stupid song played almost every scene when there was literally nowhere for it to even come from.
There was a lot of suspension of disbelief required.
Speaking of plot armor, Bucky quickly decided that there was no way he was actually showing up to everyone trying on the wings. What’s the worst they could do, fire him?
In the meantime, though, he was following Sam and Riley to where they were supposed to report. There were other classrooms at this part of the base; maybe there were more people? He tried to picture the faces of the missing people but came up blank. Torres would know; he was the one who talked to the families. And unless the witch had decided to change his name, Torres wasn’t in the program with Sam and Riley; his name and description were met with blank stares, and they insisted they knew everyone in the program.
“Hey,” he said as they reached the classroom door (a quick glance inside revealed that he did not, in fact, recognize anyone inside). “I gotta get something handled real quick, but I’ll be back.”
Sam frowned as he checked his watch. “You only have about five minutes.”
How did he say that he really did not give a fuck about how late he was? Instead, he just repeated, “I’ll be back.”
“Is it something we can help with?” Sam asked, still frowning.
“It’s probably classified,” said Riley, a little snidely.
Bucky shrugged, as if to say, he said it, not me , and Sam still looked a little concerned but allowed himself to be dragged into the classroom.
The hallway was much quieter without Sam. Bucky sighed as he looked around. If I were Joaquín Torres, where would I be? Updating my Captain America shrine, probably. Or looking for more trouble to get into. Though he was probably, like, a toddler in 2002, wasn’t he? Bucky didn’t feel like doing the math.
“Hey,” someone snapped from behind him. “You mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
Bucky startled. It was Riley , no Sam in sight, which felt distinctly wrong. Not just because the two were always together, but because he really only existed as a figment of Sam’s memory, right? “What?”
“I said, what the hell is going on?”
“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific,” Bucky said.
“I mean…” he seemed to lose some of his steam now that Bucky was listening. “Just…your whole thing. Everything was fine, everything was normal, and now you show up out of nowhere, acting weird as hell at the bar, leading Sam on—”
“Leading Sam on?” he repeated incredulously.
“And now we’re both having all these weird dreams, and you’re managing to avoid everything that actually has to do with why we’re here, so yeah, I want to know what the hell is going on. Are you even a pilot?”
“Listen, kid, I don’t have time for this.”
“Then make the time.” Riley had his arm, now, and it was all Bucky could do not to shove him off.
“Look, I get it, you care for him, and this whole protectiveness thing is cute.” Riley bristled at that, just like he had bristled when Bucky had called him ‘kid,’ and he had to hold back a laugh. “But, come on, seriously? Weird dreams?”
“You heard me,” he said defensively. “At first I just thought you were a little awkward, which, I get it, but the whole pretending to sleep, pretending to be sick, staring at Sam all the time , and, yeah, it sounds crazy, but ever since you’ve shown up I’ve been getting these intense flashes of deja vu.”
Bucky scowled. “I do not stare at Sam all the time.”
“Dude. You do.”
He didn’t have time for this. He made his voice slow, deliberate, injecting as much coldness as possible into the words. “Oh,” he said with a short laugh. “Okay. You’re jealous, is that it?”
Riley yanked back as if burned. “What? I’m not— no .”
He was kind of being a dick, and he would feel bad, he really would, or at least consider feeling bad, except none of this was real. What was real was that Sam was very possibly dying. And Bucky had to do something about it.
He had entered the memory last night by thinking about Torres, right? He could do that again. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the man’s face, some story Sam had maybe told about him, something —
“Hey, I’m not finished,” Riley snapped.
But Bucky suddenly had the distinct feeling of falling, and then—
You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain.
He wasn’t at the base, he was back at the bar, except it was brighter, less people, and piano chords filled the air.
Too much love drives a man insane.
“Great, Barnes, where did you get yourself this time?” he muttered.
You broke my will—
This definitely wasn’t a memory, he quickly realized; it was a picture-perfect representation of one of the movie scenes.
But what a thrill—
Riley was playing at the piano, and Sam was standing next to him, their heads leaning together as they sang “ Goodness gracious, great balls of fire! ”
And, just like in the movie, there was a toddler on the piano. Except, and Bucky could be crazy, but he did not think the child in the movie had dark hair and tan skin.
He had just been thinking that Torres was probably, like, two or three in 2002, right? Except…no. That was stupid. Like, a next level of stupid, even more than all the other stupid shit that’s happened so far.
Because, in the movie, that was Goose’s kid, and clearly Riley was supposed to be Goose, and, again, call him crazy, but Bucky was pretty sure Joaquín was not related to Riley.
Whatever. Whatever. Why should anything surprise him anymore? Either way, he wasn’t kidnapping this child — he’d rather just grab Sam at that point — so he closed his eyes again and thought adult Joaquín, please, Jesus Christ.
I laughed at love 'cause I thought it was funny.
The piano was still playing, but something shifted . Bucky felt different, and even before opening his eyes, he knew that he was in his older body. Serum, vibranium arm, and all.
You came along and you moved me, honey.
And that wasn’t Riley singing. The room was different; different people, different decor, no sign of Sam or Riley. Instead, Torres was at the piano. Bucky let himself feel a small surge of victory, despite the distinct lack of Sam. He was getting better at this.
I’ve changed my mind—
A group of people in Navy uniforms were surrounding him, singing along.
This love is fine—
Now, and maybe he was getting his hopes up, but some of these could be the missing people; he thought he remembered them being pretty young, around Joaquín’s age.
Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!
Bucky studied the group while they sang the rest of the song. The girl sort of looked familiar. The guy next to Torres, too, in the glasses, looking at him like he was playing Stravinsky and not the same chords on repeat.
The girl noticed him first, nudging Torres. “You know that guy?” he heard her ask (he’d have to get used to the enhanced senses again. Already the room was far too loud).
Bucky made his way to the piano as Torres turned around, but there wasn’t the spark of recognition like there was when Bucky was in his memory. Alright, time to improv. “Torres, right?”
“Yeah…sorry, have we met?”
Bucky took a shot in the dark. “I’m friends with Sam.”
He tilted his head. “Sam.”
“Sam Wilson?”
That had the opposite of its intended effect; he stiffened, suddenly guarded. “Oh.”
“Have you seen him? Do you know where he’s at?”
“Why should I know where he is?” Torres said disdainfully.
Great, the witch gave him an attitude.
Before Bucky could snap back, the group erupted into chatter.
“Wait, dude, you know Sam Wilson? The Falcon?”
“ Obviously he knows Falcon, his old man flew with him.”
“Do you think he’ll be our instructor? Imagine that.”
“Well, I’m sure, like, all our parents know cool people, so, um, maybe we can talk about something else…” That came from glasses guy, who had been watching Torres get increasingly more tense.
“Thanks, Bob,” Torres muttered.
“Okay,” Bucky said, loudly, using his best commanding voice, the one that had worked on him back when he was used to being ordered around in the army. “I do not have time for this. Kid, come with me.”
Torres looked a little startled but obliged. He felt the eyes of the others on them as they went outside, the sounds of the bar fading as he closed the door.
“Did you fly with my dad?” he blurted as soon as they were alone.
Bucky could feel a headache coming on. This was a sequel, wasn’t it? Well, he had asked for this. “You’re Riley’s kid.”
He straightened, nodding.
“Yeah, sure, I knew him.” For about thirty-six hours. He couldn’t help but add, dryly, “You take after your mother?”
Torres bristled a little at that and, okay, Bucky could maybe see a little bit of the family resemblance the story was pushing.
Bucky hurried on before he could say anything. “Listen, this is going to sound crazy…” He hesitated. How was he supposed to put it? Hey, remember your best friend who died worked with Sam, but surely there was a less traumatizing way. “None of this is real.”
He laughed. “That does sound crazy.” He was glancing back towards the door, probably planning a retreat. “But, okay, talk to me. What makes you think that?”
And then Sam came out the door. His Sam, looking so much like the real thing that Bucky half expected him to break into a grin and quip about his staring problem, grab him by the shoulder and pull him in.
Except, Bucky knew Sam hadn’t always been inside. He would’ve seen him, or sensed him, a compass always pointing north, especially this Sam.
Which meant, just like how Riley had pulled him away that first night when he tried to get through to Sam, this was a distraction.
“Good,” Bucky said brusquely, swallowing the storm of emotions brewing inside him. “You need to hear this, too.”
Joaquín scoffed at that. Bucky pointed at him. “And you need to drop the attitude.”
“You’re not my dad,” he snapped, all teenage angst and daddy issues. Jesus Christ, now he was missing his Torres, and wasn’t that something?
He threw his arms up. “Okay. You two need to talk it out like adults. Whatever kind of conflict is going on in this story.”
“What did I walk into?” Sam said, looking like a deer in headlights. Bucky sincerely hoped they had stayed friends in this story, and it wasn’t like they had a situationship during the events of the first movie or something and now were just seeing each other for the first time again.
“This guy’s crazy,” Torres said. “And what the hell are you doing in Miramar— oh my God, you’re our instructor, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t know you would be assigned to this,” Sam said, looking miserable.
“I don’t even know what this is!”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Guys, please.”
“They’re restarting the Falcon program,” Sam said.
Torres flinched. “And you don’t think I should be here for that?”
“No, actually, I don’t. You’re not ready.”
“I’m not ready,” he repeated. “And that’s why you pulled my papers at the Academy? Because you decided I wasn’t ready.”
“You weren’t,” Sam said, all matter-of-fact, and at least this was closer to his Sam and Joaquín, Joaquín consistently pushing the limits, Sam pushing back just as hard.
“Guys!” Bucky snapped.
“What?” they both said at once, and then glared at each other.
“You two,” he said, “are here because you want to help people, right? I mean, that’s why you get up every day, risk your lives. Not because you have something to prove, or because you’re chasing some sort of ghost, but because you want to help people. It sounds crazy, but the people in there need our help. And I know my friends are in there, deep inside, wanting to help. So…”
That was it. That was all he had in the way of inspirational speeches. Please, let this work.
There was a flicker of confusion on Joaquín’s face, then panic.
Then Bucky blinked, and he was somewhere else, laying down on a hard surface.
Okay. Okay, this is good. This is what I wanted. Back in the memories, where I can fuck some more shit up. He was hoping to be with Sam or Joaquín, but beggars can’t be choosers. He tried to sit up and felt his heart skip a beat when restraints stopped him.
There was a sharp stabbing pain in his head, and his breathing was shallow, every inhale feeling like there were rocks pressing down on his chest. He could feel himself mutter a litany, Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 32557038, and it was all he could do to wrest control of his body and stop, and, fuck , this was Austria, that was medical equipment next to him, this was…
Bucky realized he had stopped breathing and took a deliberate breath in, black spots appearing in the corner of his vision as the movement sent pain jackhammering through his chest. Great, he thought wildly, of course this specific memory is from before I got over the broken ribs and pneumonia.
He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t. This is in the past, it isn’t real.
But it was real, it actually happened, Joaquín had said, eyes wide and terrified, and it felt real, and what does real even mean anyway, he had been thinking it so much the word felt foreign to him.
What was real? He was reading a book, last week. It was tangible, physical, something he could hold in his hand. Wheel of Time? No, that was Riley, Riley was reading that, and that wasn’t real, that was a dead guy, a shared hallucination. Bucky Barnes was reading Dune , and Sam had said they made a movie.
Sam. Sam was real.
A little round face with glasses appeared above him, a little blurry. Bucky remembered this, the pain, the confusion, broken up by this face. He remembered, now, why he needed his mantra, one thing that was real, solid, his .
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I…
“You’re singing a different tune today, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola noted with a detached interest.
The thoughts slipped out of his mind.
What was real?
It was 1943. He was in the isolation ward, where no one came out. And, for all he knew, the only people that existed were him and the mad scientist above him.